Buckling Under You
by DestinyShiva
Summary: After the fall of the Spanish armada, the personification of Spain falls into English clutches; where the young, charismatic new King of the ocean enjoys claiming hearts as well as stealing pride. RP with Hannaadi88, SpUK. Yes, in that order.


**Another RP by myself and Hannaadi88.**

**Warnings for: Dub-con, possible historical inaccuracies. Changing point of view between characters.**

**Summary: After the fall of the Spanish armada, the personification of Spain falls into English clutches; where the young, charismatic new King of the ocean enjoys claiming hearts as well as stealing pride. RP with Hannaadi88, SpUK. Yes, in that order.**

* * *

><p>1588. If he had known earlier, he may not have even tried. He should have left England alone- what did he have to do with the unsocial, mediocre and moody Island nation? Much the less have complete control over it? Sure, his prince was a rightful candidate for the blond country's throne. True, the Spaniard had to talk once in a while to the other man, as their monarchs were married.<p>

But now that Phillip's wife was gone, it seemed that the Briton wished to rule on his own, with a redhead whore on his throne. Had the man no shame? Reject the rules of propriety and risk war with a powerful empire for the sake of a forgotten princess, a bastard?

Well, war was what he got. And Antonio found out soon enough that he was mistaken to try the other's anger.

He had sailed out with his Armada, his unbeatable fleet, sure of his victory. The Anglo nation would be on his knees, pleading for forgiveness pretty soon. None too later, the Spaniard found himself doing the exact same thing. In front of said nation, nonetheless.

How he wished he were back in his sunny, warm homeland. Instead, his torn clothes exposed his tanned skin to the chill commonly found underground. Which was understandable, as he was in a cold, British cell. His hands were chained above his head to a wall, numb from the pressure. Legs buckled underneath him, Antonio grimaced. 'Comfortable'? Anything but.

It was all he could do but glare at his captivator. England.

For the aforementioned, it was a quite bitter, hollow victory. They were merely trying to stop an invasion that the entireties of the English people were against. Defending your own land from intruders was nothing in comparison to the satisfaction capturing the rest of the whole of your own terms and sealing their riches into your own treasuries for your own damned benefit brought. It was a pointless objective for the Spaniard to have sought. Had Phillip become the King, then there would have been anarchy in objection regardless. It was a hassle definitely not worth it. They had only everything to lose.

Arthur folded his arms, glaring at his highly proclaimed 'guest' with a rather irritably smug expression on his face. He considered the Spaniard for a moment, taking in the absolutely beautiful sight in front of him – that pathetic man; covered in scuff marks, burns from gunshots only just reflecting his skin and dirt, all shackled to his holding cell's wall. How Arthur could have laughed at that image.

The urge to break down into laughter was overwhelming, and the smirk on his face did not disguise that fact. He was tempted to shout. Shout and explain to the world that he had subdued someone like this. That the Kingdom of England was beginning to rise like a phoenix from the ashes. He wanted to shout at that man; 'where is your royalty now?', 'have you conquered me yet, dear? Have you?'

Licking his lip, he started walking – fingers resting philosophically on his chin, and boots clicking on the ground as his elevated heels collided with the stone. Circling his prisoner in a half circle, Arthur wondered just what it was that he wanted to say. More than anything, he wanted that man to feel humiliated - horrified that he ever had the plain audacity to even think of trying to keep down the cold-blooded British.

"That is a good look for you, Spaniard." Arthur practically spat, chuckling afterwards.

Antonio just glared. Oh, he knew what would be a pretty sight. England, bloody, at his feet. Lying on the ground, preferably. Antonio closed his eyes, envisioning it. Better than facing the bastard. He knew how the Englishman liked playing with his food, torturing his prisoners for his own pleasure.

The worst he could do in retaliation is nothing at all. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Arthur cocked his head, giving an almost innocent little smile at his prisoner's behaviour. Tapping his lip curiously, his darkly shining eyes - bejewelled like expensive emeralds, quite as royal and raw as he was - examining his prised treasure. Most precautious, Arthur stepped in front of him, and knelt to the other's height. He was careful about his clothes; making sure they did not hit the ground and weren't dirtied like the man he saw before him.

"Though, you cannot exactly see it from my perspective, can you?" Arthur said primly. He very much expected retaliation, and he quite adorned the sentiment. The silence thus far from the Spaniard was intriguing. He wanted to see what that tongue could do.

"Let me paint you the picture more clearly in a way you would understand; you look simply splendid all sprawled out dirtily like a little whore."

Antonio felt his body heat rise at the sudden comment, hatred practically glowing on his face. His resentment towards the man in front of him only grew, and the anger he triggered was unbearable. The Spaniard prized his calm and happy nature, not letting little insults get to him on a daily basis. But for some reason, the Englishman seemed to be able to push him off the edge effortlessly. It was infuriating, and the fact that he was showing it so soon angered him even more.

Anger at the Briton. Anger at himself.

"A whore? If you wanted to see one, you could have simply looked at your own _princesa_." The Spanish nation spat finally, emphasizing the last word and loosing himself to his anger.

Arthur could have burst into laughter at that face alone, but he maintained his composure. Despite being confident in himself now that he had sheer victory; the Englishman was not so swaggered during and pre-empting the battle itself. But once again he proved what was slowly becoming known across the world.

The comment provoked a reaction opposite to Arthur's previous amusement. His smile instantly flashed off of his face, and a clapping sound quickly reverberated through the entire cell. Arthur withdrew the gloved hand he struck the Spanish fool with, curling it back down into a tight fist.

"You will not speak of my dear Elizabeth with such profundities within my presence, if you know what is good for you - _dog_." Arthur growled. His glare never left the other as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pocket knife.

"You have no idea how easy it would be for me to cut out your tongue right now. I'm sure it would be a well revered treat with the ravens in the towers. Don't you think?" He laughed, finally, and shot his hand forwards; grabbing the Spaniard by the chin and pressed the cold metal to his tongue. Arthur chuckled darlingly to himself and swooped in close, lightly brushing their cheeks together.

Whispering into Antonio's ear, he darted his own tongue out and lightly licked the dangling lobe. "That would be a shame though, wouldn't it? I'm sure there is much better things we can do with your tongue. Isn't there, _whore_?"

The blade pressed smoothly against his tongue, Antonio shivered. After all this time, he came to a sobering conclusion. The other was crazy, and he had the misfortune of being his prisoner. One action could provoke conflicting reaction within the Englishman, and although it frightened him, the Spanish nation was intrigued by it. How far could he push the other before he actually hurt him?

He rose to the challenge. After all, England couldn't hurt him too much. He would profit more by keeping his prisoner alive to hold for ransom. Until then, though, Antonio was free to play and twist his captivator as much as he wanted to.

His cheek burned, his breath was hitched. Any movement of his could result with a fierce cut of his tongue, which he preferred to keep unscathed. The Englishman's own damp muscle on his earlobe wasn't helping the least. So, he wanted him to use his tongue?

Use it he shall. He had nothing to lose.

Carefully, Antonio ran his tongue across the blade, making sure the pressure he applied to it was not sufficient enough to cause a cut. Saliva ran down the shimmering metal, leaving wet trails in its path. His head moved accordingly, tilting and turning so that he covered every inch on the weapon.

Amusement flashed over Arthur's features as he watched the Spaniard suck and lap at the piece of metal in his hands, although the initial shock did not leave him for a second either. He barred his teeth, having the urge to start pumping the blade in and out of the other's wet and tangible mouth. He would have loved to see his opposition's tongue ripped apart and the roof of his mouth spilling with blood, dripping out of his lips like the wet saliva was now.

Though the nation was far too patience, and he knew exactly what he wanted. Why would he force that mouth to unnecessarily bleed and become ruined when he had far more splendid things in mind for its use? If Antonio was gurgling with blood, then he would not be able to scream or beg. And, Heavens, let him be damned if his darling toy choked to death! He wasn't quite one for necrophilia. Shame, really. How ironic it would be for him to ride Antonio's cold dead corpse to the ground.

Noticing that the Spaniard had not kicked his legs when Arthur had approached, or even now with a knife shoved in his gob; the Englishman gave a sly look before sliding his body closer. He took Antonio's hip onto one of his hands and brought himself up until he was straggling the other. Arthur rolled his own hips once, making sure Antonio was fully aware of the dominance he claimed over and above him.

One kiss to his cheek was followed by a second. Arthur chuckled darkly, slowly withdrawing the slickened blade out of those reddened lips. Tipping his head back so Antonio could see clearly, he licked all of the saliva off of the blade; rolling his tongue in ways that showed off its skills rather gloriously.

"So acidic a taste," Arthur remarked, smacking his lips. As expected of the tomato-addicted nation.

Sniggering to himself still, he lent in and smoothed their foreheads and noses together - lips so damned close that they were so almost brushing. Though the kiss never came.

"Whores shouldn't have the privilege of kissing their customers," He added with a definite nod - tauntingly pursing his lips before he shot his head right back.

"Whores should give them whatever they desire." Arthur crooked his neck, flopping his head slightly to the left. "So, my dear little infidel. Are you going to give me what I want? Or would you like me to take it from you-Just like your little armada?"

He was being teased; their bodies too close. Antonio found himself bucking into the touch, trying to get closer to the one he hated the most. How was it that through the insults, wounds and degrading treatment, he was still able to look the other in the eye? Much the less crave his presence? Oh, the irony of it all.

But just as fast as his captivator granted that friction, it was taken away. Oh, the cruelty of it all.

A soft smirk curled the Spaniard's lips as he lowered his gaze. "You seem to know your share about whores, _Inglaterra._ Why is that? You must use them often. Or..." A sneaky expression crossed his face, "you are one yourself? An expert in your profession?"

Oh, the fun of it all.

Arthur could have burst out laughing at that, muscles underneath his left eye twitching at that damned statement. The frankly beautiful expression on the Spaniard's face was so precious. If only he was talented in the arts; he would paint that face and kiss it every night. Perhaps that; or he'd have to hack it off of Antonio's cold, dead body first hand and keep the real thing.

"I won't deny," The Englishman begun, tapping his lip lightly. "I've been serviced in my time. But those women are just dirty hags, spreading their legs to anyone that pays a penny."

The keeper laughed at his prisoner, drawing in close to the Spaniard. Still giggling in his face, he let his lips graze against that soft cheek and back nearby his ear. "But women cannot satisfy me the way I want - the way that only a man could." He whispered tauntingly, before dipping his tongue into the warmer centre of his opposition's ear.

With his hands, Arthur took up the knife again and began to slice the other's clothing without a single care in the world. If Antonio got nicked by the blade, it was his own damned problem. He grasped the shirt after a while, getting too frustrated to cut it precisely, and tugged; tearing it apart so he could see those darling muscles underneath.

"Mm..."

The confession did not surprise the Spaniard - England was known for his love of all that was fine and good. Superb food (imported, no doubt), music, intellect... and partners. He obviously did not lack of them, a fact Antonio always scorned. But as the other came closer and grazed against him tauntingly, the always-warm country shivered, back arching slightly. There was only one way this encounter will end, and the Spanish nation found himself both dreading and looking forward to it.

His suspicions were only confirmed when he was ridden of his shirt, the blade that tore through the cloth almost cutting his skin. Not so lucky, it seemed- the knife actually tore a bit more than thread. A shallow mark was left above his navel, accompanied by a swallowed cry of pain. And if that was not enough, he was being devoured by the hungry eyes of his captivator. Antonio squirmed and struggled against the chains.

"You shameless _puta_. Are you so scared of me that you suppress me with chains? Hah. And you call yourself a man.

Arthur chuckled at that, rather than being offended. The nation brought up one of his hands and dragged it through the Spaniard's locks. He had always had a fascination for that Mediterranean colouring; dark hair, dark skin. They were beautiful. Quite captivating. But nobody induced him as much as his company did, in that respect. Along with those eyes, he wished he would severe and preserve those good looks - without the hassle of the snappish tongue in return.

Though that was one of the intriguing things about Antonio. His voice was deep and slurred with accents and pronunciations he couldn't hope to comprehend. It would be a shame to stop that tongue from speaking.

"If I let you go free, darling, then what will you do? Strangle me and try to escape? You and I both know that would be foolish. Or perhaps you'd embrace me as I ask? Maybe you'd like to kill me and touch and ransack my corpse, you dirty thing." The Englishman teased. "I wonder, Antonio, whether you've imagined yourself right here before. Do you think of yourself as being underneath me? Or do you want to invade me while I tried not to mewl out your name? Yes. That one must be it."

He considered his prey for a second, and whipped a key out of one of his pockets. The nation manoeuvred the key until the light shined in his darling pet's eyes. Arthur grinned, and shoved it in his pocket after his display. Perhaps he'll free the Spaniard if he was good. If he proved he could be satisfying. Smiling still, Arthur slid himself even closer while his other hand dropped down the glorious dunes of muscle at his disposal, and to gently brush the fabric over the other's crotch.

"Maybe if you're good, I'll let you feel what it would have been like. If you had won, and if I were the one all up in chains. But face it, Antonio. You are not. My Elizabeth will still rule the British throne. As she should." Arthur gave a particularly definitive nod. Then he barked, laughing at something that crossed his mind. "I wonder, if it were not my throne that you wanted - but me, all along. Perhaps I should not be wilful, but, _oh_. Antonio, darling, why would you possibly want my little island if it were not for me? Enlighten me. Do you want me? Shall I give myself to you, mm?"

They had nothing, truly, to give. There had to be an ulterior reason.

Antonio had been so close; freedom lurking around the corner in the form of a golden key. The Spaniard gravitated towards it, pulling at his chains; eyes following its every move. Following as it was pocketed in the crimson coat. Antonio growled lowly, green orbs shifting their gaze immediately to the Englishman's face. But as the other voiced his own options - what would he do with the new-found freedom? - he found himself tensing in a different way. He tried not to imagine the scenes that Arthur planted in his mind so vividly, pulling seductively at his heart.

He would be the eve of his destruction. The last thing he would have before his undoing. Some part of him was intoxicated, a part he couldn't block forever.

Oh, Antonio wanted the Englishman. He wanted him all- fully and completely. His lands, his riches, his monarchy... His body. This was not about what _would_have happened if he had won. It was all about how he _should_have won. Everything. Somehow, something went wrong. But he wouldn't let such a small detail stop him for taking what was rightfully his.

"Just as much as you want me." He replied after a moment's thought.

Arthur smiled quite daringly at that, leaning in close. He snuffled his nose into the Spaniard's dark, curled locks - breathing in his scent and revelling in the luxury of such rich flavours. The Spanish had a lot to offer. Knowingly, Arthur recognised how much they piqued his interest. But nobody quite intrigued him as much as this man. This darling creature, all chained up. Like a majestic lion in a cage. It was so cruel, but Arthur couldn't stop himself from marvelling.

"Aye, that but I do." He confirmed, speaking soothingly to his catch as he lightly stroked the hardening spot on his prisoner's crotch level. "That but I do."

Idea coming to him, the Englishman smirked quite ruthlessly. Being a self-proclaimed 'gentleman', he supposed it should only be courteous of him to advertise selections for the feast; shouldn't it? He carefully lifted himself off of Antonio's hips, raising onto his knees in front of his captive. Without further ado, Arthur set about quickly unlacing his boots and tossing them carelessly to the side, and then slowly - _excruciatingly_ slowly - removing his trousers and the underwear he was wearing, slipping them off his thin thighs and slender legs entirely.

He grinned at the other, and used both of his arms to softly knead at that spot in-between the Spaniard's legs, intentionally teasing the man underneath him with a slight giggle leaving his throat. His jacket was covering up everything still apart from the shy, sensitive white skin barely an inch away from making his state of dress practically downright illegal. Without even realising it himself, Arthur licked his lips in anticipation.

"Tell me what you want, my dirty little scank."

Heat ebbed within the Spaniard, slowly building up at the feather light touches on areas best left unnamed. It was maddening; the two of them wanted the same thing, yet the one who was in control seemed intent on teasing and torturing him throughout it all. He was not a prisoner, and England was not a captor. Not really. And they both knew it. Antonio, with his vast lands and colonies, should have had no problem with the Englishman. He was no match for him, after all. The other himself had admitted that there was not much to him.

Then why did he lose?

His dark green eyes drunk in hungrily the sight of delicate hands removing the rough cloth that covered the most extraordinary thighs. So pale, so easy to devour. How was it that Arthur maintained such a light complexion, even at sea? That remained to be a mystery. His trail of thought was disrupted, though, as same hands continued to remove the last layer dividing between owner and public. Spanish eyes widened and eagerly followed those feline fingers. Ah, if only that jacket was not so long...

As sly fingers continued to tease him in ways the other knew best, Antonio let a small moan-mixed-sigh escape his lips and he relaxed into the touch. Moving towards it even; embracing it and wishing for more. Much, much more. To the Briton's question, he had only one answer.

"You."

As soon as the answer was purred, Arthur smiled so satisfyingly that the Englishman himself felt like he could have imploded. The thick feeling dominating his chest was so chaotically tumbling. It was hard to keep himself composed, but if anyone could manage it; it would be him. Heart thundering like the lightning storms bursting from the seven seas, Arthur tried to keep his body calmed and subdued. Just another vessel for him to control.

His fingers tightened at the Spaniard's crotch, and he squeezed the other happily through the fabric. Even the layer was beginning to wet itself from the influence of the hardening length tucked underneath it. Arthur stared at it for far longer than should be sociable, clearly getting enchanted as the trousers got tighter and tighter around the spot - as if it were growing purely because of his glance. That Briton chuckled to himself, licking saliva off of the corner's of his mouth. The damned man was a devil, and he _knew it_. His expression told the story.

Slowly, Arthur unlaced Antonio's trousers and slipped them down along with his underwear till they hung around his knees, restricting him possibly even more. He paused, lowering himself down till he could examine the Spaniard and his 'full glory'. With approval on his face, he brought forward an index finger and ran it from the very base to the tip - using the thick vein on the underneath to trace his length. "It's lovely, isn't it?" He said with an amused voice, not taking his eyes off of it. "You Latinos are so well endowed. Won't I be so lucky, having a _big boy_ like this inside me? ...Mm, _if you get that far_."

Cackling at his last comment, Arthur straightened up and ran his hand through his hair. With that, the Briton clambered properly on top of his opposition, pressing their cheeks together once again. Although this time there was a difference. Arthur spread his legs especially wide, opening himself up for Antonio's member; but Arthur pressed himself too close to the Spaniard's body and too high up to be penetrated - and instead skilfully slotted the other's cock in-between his entrance and legs. His yearning hole ached, softly brushing the side of Antonio's manhood.

Slowly, Arthur raised his hips - flicking his overly molestable arse clearly into the air as he rubbed against that throbbing, wanting length; cheeks squeezing and brushing around it as he began to roll his hips up and down repeatedly. He slipped his head down and moaned against Antonio's neck, loving the feeling of the Spaniard being so close to entering him - touching and pushing against his entrance - without actually having himself penetrated at all. The Englishman wrapped his arms around his captive's torso, breathing a little shallower as he smiled in accomplishment.

"Do you really want it?" He mewled, pushing down sideways against the other's prominent erection. His own prodded against his prisoner's stomach. "Should I give you the honours of entering my body? _Shall I?_"

Ah. So that was it. Perhaps there was a truth in the Briton's previous words, Antonio thought in between blanking- outs and mewls of pleasure. Perhaps, perhaps he did imagine this before. And maybe- just _maybe_there was a part of him that wanted to loose all the long. Wanted to loose and be treated like this. Teased like this... fucked like this. Or, as the evening proved, he would be the one to fuck. And really, with Arthur rubbing against him like that, he didn't mind what position he was in.

But he did mind his actual physical position. With hands restrained and body pressed down, he was helpless and dependent on the other for release. Which was not acceptable, obviously. But the touch-and now the friction- were driving him crazy. His breath hitched in his throat, eyes glazing over with a thin layer of lust.

He wouldn't allow himself to be used like this, without any domination whatsoever.

"Suit...yourself..." Antonio gasped, sweat beading on his forehead. "It seems that... _you_want it. _Disfrute_. Nothing is stopping you..."

Arthur moaned as their cock slipped past his cheeks; his own upper body beginning to squirm from the feeling of having another man be touching him quite intimately. He cracked his eyes open slowly, catching the dulled sense look in his opposition's face. It was so darling. So raw and enthusiastic. The gasps were beautiful as he rocked against the thing he _knew_ would be inside him in barely a moment. It was just a fact.

"Aaah... A-As you say, _suit myself_." The Englishman chuckled against the other's neck, passing warm breath all past his adorning angles. The jugular danced and that Apple of Adam's bobbed noticeably as the other swallowed. Arthur peered at it, smile peaking almost from ear to ear. "It seems we're both far too demanding men."

He reached into his pocket and took out the key once more. It shone no longer with taunt, but with hope and promise. Arthur busied himself, licking and sucking on the smooth expanses of the other's copper coloured skin; while his hands lifted upwards to lock the handcuffs. They came loose with an air penetrating click. Green eyes bore poisonously at their equivalents, waiting to see what the other would do.

The moment in which his hands were freed seemed to last a lifetime. The slow, suggesting gesture towards a British pocket, the tantalizing click of the lock.. and he was liberated. Tanned arms remained suspended in the air for moments later, not quite realizing that the metal that pushed hard against his skin was no longer there. Blood started flowing to his fingers in an alarming speed, having been denied for the past hours. If he had been human, his hands would have been too numb to move at that point. But he was not human- he was a lust-drove nation.

With a flash of greed passing through his eyes, Antonio caught the other by the hair and pulled his head back. His other hand travelled down a thin and pearl-white chest, his index finger leading the rest. With one dangerous growl, he placed Spanish lips on British ones- hard, forceful. An open mouthed kiss, suited for those whose hunger had been denied for all too long. "What was that about whore's not receiving kisses?" He teased his post-captivator in turn. "You were right. We do not receive- we _take."_

He forced Arthur onto his back with one swift motion- needy, raw. And, without much ceremony, spread those thighs he adored roughly and positioned himself _in the right place,_this time. Every fibre in his body screamed at him to go forward, but he forced himself to wait.

Eying the other in the eyes, he questioned him. "If I didn't know you better, I would say that this was all planned."

Arthur watched adoringly as the Spaniard slowly found feeling in his scuffed wrists. It was only a matter of time before the other pounced. He sipped at his own lips, making them buzz expectantly with all the blood close to the surface. Fuller lips were better to kiss, and it felt better for them to be tingling while he fully ravished that darkish tanned skin with love bites and marks. It was so hard to put his mark on slightly darker coloured nations. But all he had to do was suck even harder. His no-longer imprisoned playmate was worth the effort for.

The nation let out a gasp when Antonio tipped his head back and forced their lips together. The shock was too interiorly rehearsed. He knew all too well that Antonio would have attacked him with lust filling his mind and want dominating control of his body. Even with his own mind dopey from his own arousal, he could evaluate that much perfectly still. Arthur had always been a rather good judge of character. It was natural for one that knew what he wanted, to understand what others were craving as well.

His words sent chills down his spine, and there was no words for the relief Arthur felt when he was tossed onto his back; crashing against the cold concrete floor. With his eyes already half-lidded, he looked up at the man he had defeated. How was it that Antonio retained his splendour, when he had been beaten? Had he no concept of shame? It was glorious. The very sight set his heart on fire in his chest, and burned deeper in his body. Spread out for the Spaniard to exploit, and even with that large, throbbing cock forced against the tight opening; Arthur barely suppressed his satisfied laughs.

So glorious. So demanding, and dominating and brilliant. Maybe Antonio could not have his royalty, but he _could_ have him. His body was vacant, _wanting_for it. Yearning as much as it possibly could. Had Antonio not been defeated, he might never have seen this side to the Spaniard at all. The raw, desperate being. His anger, his passion, and his severity. It turned him on so much. He would have begged, had Antonio not been just as willing as Arthur desperately hoped.

Rocking forward a little bit, getting quite frantic by the feeling of having the other on him but not _in_ him. Though when he heard those words, Arthur kicked his head back and laughed wholeheartedly. Recovering, he smiled widely at the other.

"...Well then." He said in a voice no less than professional. What was that about him being a good whore, again? "Push into me, and you'll _see_ how much I've planned. Mm?"

Antonio's mind was not able to comprehend much at that point, but the continuous bouts of mocking laughter from the other unnerved him. He felt as if he was playing a part in a play- a play in which Arthur was both the main character and the viewer. A mind reader. Something...sinister. His grip on British hips tightened, anger forming his brow. He was not sure of the spiritual state of the one underneath him- a whore for a queen, sex a top priority... and now this? Was Arthur a witch? Falling prey to a sorcerer's plot was bad enough, but actually taking part in it willingly?

Antonio was no better than those who burned on the stake.

But while his mind screamed at him to stop, he ignored those cries and focused on his oh-so-needy body. Justice later- for now, he will cooperate. Satisfy himself. Then, when the accursed lust lifted from his human form, he will seize the opportunity while the other was weak and overpower him. And bringing him to court… Like he should.

Arthur's words intrigued him. Didn't the Briton want to be prepared? Or was there some sadistic aspect to him? But really, the Spaniard didn't mind. Lubricant of any sort was a luxury sinners did not deserve. A slight smirk curving his lips, he took the challenge and pushed in. His eyes widened in surprise at the initial coldness- it wasn't supposed to feel like that. The Englishman shouldn't have been that easy to thrust into, either.

...He knew everything, didn't he?

Arthur moaned like one of the whores Antonio was being accused of from his own mouth as the Spaniard slid inside; lifting his hips upwards to help angle the other inside. He gazed upwards and relished in the other's expression, loving the shock on that man's face. The traditional, rugged dark handsomeness was so perfect when distorted - and now he had his momentary fun, he was proud to offer the Spaniard his body in reward. Facial expressions can be distorted in so many ways, after all. Pleasure being one of them.

There were many merits of preparation. Mentally not at all being the only barrier of the word. Arthur pursed his lips, letting his eyelashes turn his eyes into something dark and seductive. Having a pre-emptive mind was good, though really, it was because Arthur knew exactly what he wanted and he had the sheer desire to go out and achieve it. He wanted Antonio, and now he was receiving. The Brit had wanted him enough to self-prepare his body with lubricant for this moment. This right here.

"Ahh..." Arthur panted, body rippling in a slow, wave-like manner in pleasure as the Spaniard entered him entirely. He leant his head back, mumbling to himself in incoherent bursts - unintentionally hiding the aroused blush tending on his cheeks and making even his ears red. Even with his own preparation, it felt like a task to take the other inside - walls expanded and muscles contracting, swallowing, that length embedded inside of him. But it felt so good...

A sudden gasp escaped the Spaniard as he finally pushed himself in as far as he could. Arthur's walls pushed against him furiously, attempting to either suck him in or throw him out; it didn't matter. It felt good, in both cases. His brow was already damp from the effort of withstanding the other's previous molestation, and now inserting himself inside said nation. With a determined expression and a shaky intake of breath, he began to move, grip on the British hips strong.

He pulled out slowly, drawing out every inch as long as he could. He wanted to hear the man underneath him beg him, _him._The so called 'loser'. The real winner, after all, was the one who gained the upper hand in bed, as Francis used to joke. He wanted to feel the other writhe beneath him, moan his name. He wanted so much from this pale nation, and he was sure that he was going to get it. After all, it wasn't like Arthur wasn't experienced...

Grinning, Antonio caught the Englishman's eyes. A moment later he pushed back in full force, eyes shutting quickly and forehead creasing at restrained effort.

Arthur grappled at the cold, concrete flooring as he waited for the Spaniard to casually start giving him what he knew that they both very well needed. With his legs spread this wide around that nice enjoyable waist of Antonio's and body barely accommodating his girth; the Englishman could only feel precariously dirty while the other slowly began to have his way with him. Arthur let out an unsatisfied groan. It was too slow for his tastes – far too slow.

Their eyes connected at once, and he consciously growled in response to the look given to him. Antonio thought he was so clever, didn't he? Need he remind him that it was only because of him that the Spaniard had been released from his bonds at all? Sneaky bastard—Arthur bet that the gloriously gorgeous nuisance at his disposal thought he somehow had won by seducing his heart. There was that burning desire within the other to have him beg, _yearn_, for his slow fuck. But no, the Spaniard hadn't won this battle yet. Need he remind the other that the war was _his_?

Arthur pushed his hips forwards to accept Antonio's thrust, and allowed a moan to sneak out from his hips - something unspeakably feminine and alluring, to make the other's cock twitch inside him. That it did. He arched his back, showing off his beautifully mahogany skin and the wonderful little curves he could get his body to conform to. His darling green eyes stared at his company through batted eyelashes. If Antonio thought it was him that was going to moan for the other, he was dead wrong. Arthur was only in this for himself. Cold, and calculated.

"Give me what I want, fool. I'm not here to please _you_. Come on. Take me harder, if you're man enough for it." He snapped, rolling his body to stimulate the Spaniard further intentionally.

Shame, anger and lust dusted the Spaniard's cheeks with a deep crimson. As much as this was enjoyable and satisfying- _mi dios_, was it satisfying- he couldn't ignore the feeling of being used out of his mind. The pleasure was not pure. If not for the enticing way the other moved his hips, pushing against him, Antonio would have rather been tortured. Oh, but he was tortured- being mocked and mentally toyed with.

There was no mercy to provoke from this man. Mercy which the Spanish nation had no need nor want of.

Anger clouding his thoughts, Antonio's thrusts came stronger, quicker. Just like Arthur liked it, whore. If quick satisfaction was what he wanted, then that was what he was going to get. The faster the ordeal- as pleasurable as it is- was over, the sooner he could be sent back home, to where the sun always shined.

Because, ever since he had left, it had rained.

What a lovely rain it was, too. Blessed with the air of defeat, like an ominous sign to the dominance the British nation King on his cloud nine throne held over those that had been crushed by him. That said, Arthur would never have admitted that the win was his almost purely by luck. They should not have won against Antonio's forces - although it certainly put him in his place. There was only room for one ruler of the seas, albeit the whole damned wide world.

He took Antonio's thrusts happily, gasping with a sly and deviant smile cracking into his face. The Briton could not believe how easily the Spaniard was being twisted to his will - to his dauntingly passionate atmosphere of sheer want. It had been time and a half since the last time that Arthur had felt this good - this _alive_. The thrill of the fight was still burning inside of him, and he was glad to be given more, more, _more..._

"Yes, Antonio—_yes!_" Arthur blurted out without thinking, rocking his hips to receive that Mediterranean member into his hot, tight heat - betraying just how much his body was secretively at the Spaniard's mercy. He looked up as soon as he realised that he had shouted him, eyes wide in shock at himself. Internally, he pleaded that Antonio would not notice just how putty the Englishman was, _really_, inside the other's hands.

Antonio had locked himself in a small corner of his mind, oblivious to everything but his thrusts and the body writhing underneath him. He simply couldn't take it- the humiliation, the pressure... those lust-glazed eyes looking up at him, demanding. Hating. Cold, jewel-like eyes. Oh, how he wanted to be home, basking in his sun and munching on some grapes. He didn't hear the Englishman, but rather moved mechanically over him.

His breathing, shallower from the effort, almost stopped and his eyes widened. It was as if he was suddenly snapped back into reality by a spasm. His actions had somewhat a renewed enthusiasm about them, and his eyes shone brighter than before.

"Hn...Ah...Arthur...?" He wasn't sure what he was asking, but the question lingered in the air amidst the groans and gasps.

Arthur exploded into almost sobbing moans at the feeling of his prostate being pressed as Antonio plunged deeper and harder by every thrust, ramming himself home. Quite literally, in fact. Frankly, the Briton was happy. He had received what he had come into the cell for; sex and interrogation. It was clear in Antonio's eyes that he had not snapped yet, but Arthur was still planting the seed in his mind and memory. The Spaniard will not sleep properly again for some time, and that gave him extortionate pride and comfort.

He had no care, nor want, to hold onto his prisoner of war forever. It was much sweeter to let the defeated return home, eventually, and have it prey on his mind - over and over again - that he had been ruined by a pirate younger and _better_. The Kingdom nation could have been a sadist in a completely different way to conventional, like the barbaric people to the deep south. Psychological torment, that was the best. He wanted to know that he was in people's heads. That they could not forget him, they would think about him, until it drove them all absolutely unfathomable. Domination was in the head, just as much as the body.

Antonio, poor fool, was going to be entirely enslaved.

But yet, Arthur was not a stranger to the sensation as well. As it happens, he had already been given a taste of his own medicine. At that time, Arthur's thoughts were just a nonsensical mantra of want and praise and the urge to destroy, and the urge to be constantly with the Spaniard even if they were apart. In short, he wanted Antonio to think only about him, to desire only for him. Mentally, Antonio already had Arthur buckled and shackled. His lust-filled actions, taking him however he could receive it, was proof of that enough.

In the depths of Arthur's body, surrounded by warmth and tightness, Antonio mentally paused. His body continued to thrust into the Englishman as if on autopilot, but his mind came to a stop. Why was he doing this? Why was Arthur craving him so much as to play with him like this? A sick obsession, an infatuation, or simple desire and a ready partner? Whichever it was, Antonio was sickened by it. He wanted no part in any of it, as much as his body might disagree with him. He was ruined, like so many times before, by the insanities of another nation. He couldn't bare it any longer.

With a small grunt, he was forced into a heated kiss, going along with it stoically. He had not part on it- his body belonged to the Briton, and had every right to do as he wished with it. Antonio's will, on the other hand, remained his own. Even if his mind was haunted by visions of this rendezvous for all eternity, his unwillingness could not be changed.

Something in him cracked, and the Briton snapped up and damned his earlier words. Whoever said that whores could not kiss their own? He took Antonio's cheeks into his hands and he pressed their lips together in a heated, fervent kiss as the tension between them deepened and deepened. Until, finally, his erratic body could no longer hold the pleasure attributed to him. The climax was hot, white and vicious; and Arthur broke off the kiss with a moan and a fulfilled cry.

As Arthur's inner walls tightened around him, Antonio let out a surprised gasp and shuddered, the noises the other made and his clenching around him did their own. He came, tears blurring his vision, into his conquer, biting his lip until it bled. He felt disgusted, used and worn. Hopefully, it would end soon. If only it could be so easy! But some part of him was determined to express his true, untainted feelings. Ones that the Englishman had no control over whatsoever.

Panting, he collapsed on top of the other, lips grazing the other's soft cheek. Then, voice silky and alluring, he whispered against the pale skin his confession. "I hate you." He said effortlessly. Grinning, he pulled himself up with an effort and straddled the Englishman, beaming down at him with his carefree smile.

Arthur gave a low hiss accompanied by a sneer rivalling that of Beelzebub himself, wincing after Antonio pulled himself out. Bodily juices and the cooking oil that he had used as lubrication splattered out of him in the motion, and the Englishman squirmed at the feeling of a few liquid droplets snaking down the insides of his thighs. As the weight shifted until the Spaniard found it suitable to perch upon him, Arthur enjoyed a brief moment of freedom to re-catch his breath. He was fit and young still, and his stamina was recovered with little to no effort. Every day more strength was beginning to build in his muscles and his bones.

The carefree smile that Antonio contributed to him could have driven stakes into many hearts - as warming as it was breaking. But it was his words that made Arthur bark out his laughter the most, shaking his head at the hilarity of it. To him, it was ironic. How many times had be fantasised that Antonio would drone out those words? How many times did he internally rehearse the scene where they flirted with tangs of a blade till death? He wanted to kill that man; to kill him and kick him off his high and mighty perch, standing on top of his body and other's to reach the one objective that captured many nation's captivation - the throne at the top of the world.

Arthur simply leant in and brushed a thumb to the brunet's dirty cheek, smutted by the dark cell and the sweat now decorating his brow. "And I love you too." He remarked with the same degree of freedom. He always did have an affinity with lies. The words fled his lips without a hitch or a nerve being plucked like a lute. "And _you_... will remember this day for the rest of your life as the day that I _ruined you_, and _all that you stand for_."

The back of Arthur's hand collided with the side of Antonio's face with a resounding _'smack_', and suddenly another blade alike the one that had earlier been cast aside was drawn; angled towards the Spaniard's chest. He took the opportunity to slip his body from underneath Antonio, legs shaking in nostalgia of the force of his orgasm still. "Such an easy game, my dear bitter sweet."

"An easy game, victory nonexistent," Antonio commented, lips twitching into a smile. The skin of his cheek burned, but it only seemed to reflect the heat and passion that was building up inside him. Passion for the other's demise, fall and utter defeat at his hands. Taking him again and again and again, making him his and controlling the monster of the European. Being in the same exact position, happened by his opponent. Ruin him, just like the other claimed to have him.

He felt the tip of cold blade against his warm chest, sharp and brutal. He should be begging for his life, distressing over his fate. Yet he continued to smile, perhaps maddened, emerald meeting forest green. Both cool, immovably forgiving inanimate.

"Anything attained, aside from a good fuck?" he questioned the Englishman airily, the ghost of laughter threatening to resurrect.

Arthur smiled unkindly, intoxicated on the way that Antonio's lips swallowed down pitiful laughter. He was not a fool - he knew that the laughter was meant for him; a mockery of what he had achieved. Yet, despite being the one who had been used, Arthur felt like he was the winner of the game they played; the constant dance between them of bad versus bad, clashing consciences. He wanted Antonio to take him - he must have known that to death by now.

Though still he acted like he was whole, stable; maybe even more so than he was. Arthur loathed it.

He loathed it, but it only made him crave for that man all the more.

Another sharp backhand was delivered, and Arthur narrowed his curious green orbs in spite against the Spaniard; he would pay for using that tone. He could - perhaps keeping him on British ground for years would be punishment of that enough. He was against the Queen of England and thus needed to be reconciled. To repent for the sin of not believing in the English monarchy and his strength. Arthur really was a prodigy.

"Victory against _you_, my sweet." Arthur whispered, tilting Antonio's head with the side of the blade and kissing the plump lips. Parting, Arthur sighed shakily and prayed that the other did not notice. "A victory that is more satisfying than what any other man, or woman, could give me."

There was a sudden resounding thwack, and the hilt of Arthur's knife collided with the other's head with as much force as he could have mustered. He withdrew the implement and stashed it away in his coat, before moving to collect the other parts of his dressing as Antonio laid knocked unconscious and useless on the cold, wet and hard floor. The trinkets jangled as he stuffed everything into his grip.

Grinning with satisfaction, the English nation gave him one more silent kiss to the cheek, and disappeared away to continue about his business; leaving the cell's door hanging wide ajar, Antonio's previous chains and cuffs undone.

What was the point of appreciating a bird flying freely, when it is never intended to be freed?

* * *

><p><strong>DestinyShiva and associates. Bringing you bottoming!England since 2009. XD.<strong>


End file.
